


Nebulas

by 24bookworm68



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: FUCK, Gen, I am so, I'm so sorry, i hate myself for writing this, i only tagged the characters with actual speaking roles, oblivion fanfic, overuse of the word fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:20:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2145372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24bookworm68/pseuds/24bookworm68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean dying, though you hate to think this, was almost a relief after long months of being on the precipice. Like a seven month free-fall and the splat on the pavement after, all over in an instant, flash of white noise and blinding (haha) pain and then nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nebulas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [southspinner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/southspinner/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Oblivion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473694) by [southspinner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/southspinner/pseuds/southspinner). 



> Okay, so you all probably know that my friend Southspinner wrote a soulcrushing jeanmarco fic called Oblivion. Well, if you were looking for relief from that pain, this is the wrong place to look for it. You all probably also know that in TFiOS, Isaac has a certain line- "I dislike living in a world without Augustus Waters." which inspired this mess. 
> 
> TFiOS and SNK belong to their creators, Oblivion belongs to Morgan, but you can blame THIS entirely on me.

Jean dying, though you hate to think this, was almost a relief after long months of being on the precipice. Like a seven month free-fall and the splat on the pavement after, all over in an instant, flash of white noise and blinding ( _haha_ ) pain and then _nothing_.

Marco didn’t see it that way. He was a fucking mess, is still a fucking mess, and reassuring platitudes like _at least he isn’t suffering anymore_  are the epitome of bullshit, and telling him that you’re hurting too feels wrong and selfish because no matter how much you loved Jean you aren’t dealing with it on top of the Grim Reaper looming over your shoulder. Marco’s indefinitely terminal and you’re just a blind dumbass in fucking remission and this is not about your suffering this is not about your pain, say it again, this. Is. Not. About. You.

But damn does it hurt.

You actually deal with it remarkably well, because you don’t get sad when you’ve experienced a tragedy, you get _pissed_  and the blood boils under your skin until it can’t be contained anymore.

The breaking point isn’t when you go to his funeral, and no, you don’t give a _f_ _ucking_  speech, fuck Jean for ever thinking you were gonna give a speech. It doesn’t come when Marco shows up at your house to curl up in your bedroom and cry. It doesn’t come for months and months of plastic smiles and deflection.

It’s in April, when you get an audiobook version of _Oblivion_  and you hear _perfect friendships are overrated_  and-

Splat. White noise. Pain. Your mom knocking on the door, “Sweetie, are you okay? I heard crashing.”

Your hands are bleeding, you can feel it. “I’m fine, mom.” Liar. But what are you supposed to say? _No, mom, I’m a psychological wreck. No, mom, I was in fucking Denver. No, mom, I want to throw myself under a bus. No, mom, I wasn’t ever supposed to need to live without Jean and now I fucking have to and I forgot how. No, mom, I’m alone in the dark and I don’t know how to tell anybody how scared I am and I’m lost and nobody’s even looking for me why aren’t you looking for me where are you where am I. No, mom, I miss my best friend._

You find your headphones and put them back on. _”Come to support group with me this afternoon.” “No.” “Jean-”_.

You haven’t cried since before you got your first eye removed. The tear duct came out with it and the lopsided tear tracks were the last thing you fucking needed if you were already upset enough to cry, you didn’t need a goddamn reminder.

And you don’t cry now.

You get to your feet, scramble for the door, but you’re fucking upset so your sense of direction’s off so you smack into the wall before you can get to the bathroom and throw up in the hallway. Your mom rubs your back and god you _can’t_  cry anymore, even though you want to, there aren’t any tears, there’re just ragged dry sobs seizing up your chest and your stomach is cramping and this is four months overdue and it hurts, it hurts, you hate everything about this.

When after that you don’t come out of your room for three days, your parents take you to a grief counselor. You sit in the chair with your arms crossed breathing slow and deep.

A week after that, when your parents confront you about it, you shout, “ _I_ _TOLD YOU I DIDN’T WANNA GO YOU JUST LEFT ME IN THE FUCKING CABIN ANYWAY I COULD’VE FUCKING BEEN THERE YOU NEVER LISTEN-_ ” and then it stops being words, fades into an animalistic roar that strains your vocal cords and then the world pitches under you and you throw your arms out looking for something to hold onto but there isn’t anything, nothing’s there, and then you’re on the floor. White noise. Pain.

It’s horribly cliche to even think this, but for a few minutes, you’re waiting for fucking oblivion. Jean would’ve gotten a kick out of that. Bastard.

You cannot stop functioning. Jean would kick your fucking ass. Marco _will_  kick your fucking ass and put himself in the goddamn hospital and then Jean would doubly kick your ass. You peel yourself off the floor and call Armin up and ignore your parents trying to convince you you’re being ridiculous. Fuck them. You don’t need to be told what you’re dealing with. ( _Jean Kirschtein was a light in the fucking dark and the shadows are eating you up and they don’t get it._ )

Marco goes into the hospital for the last time the November after you start college. You skype call him every chance you get until he isn’t aware enough for it anymore. The oxygen deprivation is fogging up his head. His sister tells you he’s been really out of it, keeps asking for Jean. You throw the nearest thing at the wall, which you find out later was a textbook belonging to your roommate. _"_ _What the hell, man?” “Fuck you, douchewad.”_  You get your own fucking apartment

The other half of the epic romance dying sparks off another media storm over their story, you get a million calls, and it only adds fuel to the fire that the first anniversary of Jean’s death is coming up. Fuck.

You go to Marco’s funeral and a girl’s voice from behind you says, “You’re Eren.”

“I’m not giving any fucking interviews I don’t ca-”

A hand smacks into your shoulder. “ _Fuck_  you. I’m Ymir. Marco was my best friend since kindergarten.”

“...Oh.”

“Yeah, fucking _oh_ , asshole. Walk with me.” She grabs your arm, which you protest vehemently for just a second, until she growls ferociously, and she tugs you off.

One hour, a hugeass plate of mozzarella sticks, and a few shared stories about Marco and Jean, both before and after the start of their whirlwind courtship, and two smacks to the back of the head later, you count her as one of your closest friends currently alive. Which, granted, isn’t a long list, but who gives a fuck about little details like that.

The second February after Jean dies, Levi Rivaille gets in touch with you. You grit your teeth through his _belated condolences, sorry, he’s been busy writing a memoir and spending time with his wife and daughter_ , and wait for him to get to the fucking point. “I can get the media to leave you alone for a while if you give them a couple soundbytes. It might be good for closure.”

“You’re the last person to talk about cooperating with the media. Didn’t you flee to France?”

He chuckles. What a dick. No wonder Jean liked him. “Yes. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have made this call. Enjoy your life, Jaeger. The way Jean talked about you, you deserve to.”

You hang up, stare at what is probably a space near your phone for a minute.

“Mother _fucker_.”

You consent to one interview, and it’s a very, very bad decision. The first question they ask about Jean, _”what was your first impression?”_  makes you pause for a second, take a deep breath, it’s been over a fucking _year_ , Eren, calm the fuck down.

“He was a dick. Kid made fun of a half-blind guy he didn’t even know, c’mon.”

Titters from some of the audience, horrified noises from a few. They read the book and they’re not prepared for your bad manners? Idiots. “And how did your friendship start- I mean, you started out brawling.”

You pause for another second. “Um. Our parents picked us up, we came in the next week, he told me I had a killer left hook. The next day we went out for a movie and smashed popcorn into each other’s heads. Got kicked out of the theater.”

There’s a few more questions, lighthearted ones, but then the last one, which you’ve clearly been building towards, almost bowls you over. How have you dealt with the fallout of Jean’s death, and Marco’s.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Okay. I’m gonna give you a Jean-worthy astrological metaphor, and feel like a pretentious tool the whole time. You’ll all eat that up, right? He kept talking about supernovas, the whole book. Lots about fucking supernovas. The thing about supernovas- most stars aren’t big enough to turn into black holes. They aren’t. Usually, what you get is a nebula, and a million new stars come out of that, okay? A whole bunch of light in the universe because one star died. Great stuff. That’s what my life right now is. It’s a fuckton of new starts, and it _sucks_  that my best friend had to die for that to happen. It’s not worth it. But it’s the facts. I’m dealing. I’m in the middle of a fucking nebula.”

A week later there’s a package on your door. Ymir, whose lounging in your living room because she’s a fucking hobo, reads the note to you. It says _nicely put. thought you might want these. -L_

Tapes. The box is full of tapes.

Ymir grabs the one that she says has the latest date written on it and hands it to you. You retreat to your room, pop it in the player with shaking hands, put on your headphones.

You listen to the whole thing, Jean’s weak voice twisting and twisting and twisting at your internal organs, listen to his impression of your voice, listen to the last conversation you had with him. Your breathing speeds up.

_I can’t breathe. Mom, I can’t breathe._

Pain.

_Male, eighteen, suspected cardiac arrest._

Pain. Pain. Pain.

Listen to the last conversation he had with his mom, him waxing poetic even at the end, voice getting weaker and weaker.

The tape stops.

Splat. White noise. Pain. You toss everything away from you like it burns, systematically trash your entire room. Splat. White noise. Pain. You’re yelling, stumbling, a fucking _tornado_. Splat. White noise. Pain. You sit in the wreckage and become aware that you’ve stopped screaming. You’re just mumbling, you can’t even tell what. Fuck.

You stay there for you don’t even know how long.

And then you get up, walk back into the living room. “Ymir, where’s my fucking phone.”

“Where is it ever?”

You call your mom.

It’s been over a fucking year, and it’s way past time you got your shit together. Nebulas don’t stay dust clouds forever, the universe can’t keep going like that.

And besides, Jean’d kick your ass if he knew you spent so much time wallowing.


End file.
